My Mystrade Collection (all my short one-offs, with different AUs)
by Dara Gunter
Summary: Just a collection of many of my Mystrade one-offs and ficlets. May have many AUs, from Teen to Were to Vamp. Who knows what I'll write next! :D
1. Mycroft's Migraine

"Mycroft?" Greg opened the door slowly, walking into the darkened hallway. It was 12:37 pm. Mycroft had called him and he had sounded a bit tense. Greg rushed over.

"Mycroft?" Greg called again into the dimness. He walked into the den and found him. Mycroft was lying face down on his couch, ramrod straight, with a pillow over his head. His arms were at his sides, palms up and his knees were slightly bent, feet resting on the armrest. The whole thing was comical.

"What are you doing?" Greg asked the strange man.

Mycroft slowly pulled the pillow from his head, letting it and his hand thump to the floor. When he rolled over, Greg could see him better and was immediately concerned. It looked like Mycroft hadn't shaven in a few days, stubble lining his jaw. He wore a robe, t-shirt and sweats. His hair was uncombed and flopped lifelessly into his face as he sat up, eyes still closed. He put his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

"Gregory," Mycroft mumbled, barely audible. "C'mere."

Greg went and sat next to Mycroft and Mycroft leaned into Greg.

"I seem to have lost my ability to see, Gregory."

At first Greg was alarmed but then Mycroft chuckled. "Temporarily," Mycroft said. Greg sighed.

Suddenly Mycroft got up and stumbled into the hallway, making his way to the toilet. Greg ran after him but Mycroft just shut the door and locked it. "Myc, are you okay?" Greg's words were panicked and tense.

"No," Mycroft gasped and then purged the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl.

Greg could hear his retching from the other side of the door. "I-I'm going to go make you some tea, okay?" He walked into the kitchen, made sure the kettle had water, and then flipped it on. He scrabbled around, going through the cabinets to find the tea, sugar and honey. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the milk.

After finally getting everything laid out in front of him, Greg heard the kettle tick, signaling that it was boiled. Greg, being predominately a coffee drinker, wasn't entirely sure how people liked their tea. Everyone was different. He found some teabags that were labeled 'Earl Grey blend' and figured that Mycroft would like it. He plopped a bag in the cup and poured the water over it. Adding the honey then the sugar and finally the milk, he stirred_. I hope this is alright_, thought the disgruntled DI.

Greg walked into the den and set the cup down on the small coffee table and waited for Mycroft, pacing the floor.

Mycroft calmly walked back in five or six minutes later, eyelids heavy and head pounding. "I can see, but it seems that you are a blur and not in colour." His brow furrowed as he spotted the teacup on the coffee table. "You made me tea?"

Greg glanced down at the cup and back up at Mycroft. "Oh! Yes. I, uh… I tried."

Mycroft plopped unceremoniously onto the couch, Greg sitting down next to him. As he lifted the cup to his mouth, slightly annoyed that Greg had forgotten a saucer, Mycroft's hands shook. He took a sip and cringed, but hid it from Greg, who was watching him intently.

"Very nice," Mycroft lied, setting the cup back down. He gave a reassuring smile to his companion, making a mental note to teach Greg how to properly brew tea when he was well again.

Greg's shoulders relaxed, relieved that Mycroft was okay.

Mycroft leaned into him and they both stretched out together on the couch. With his back propped up against the arm of the couch, Greg ran his fingers through Mycroft's hair, soothing the elder Holmes brother. Mycroft drifted into a doze, murmuring when Greg whispered to him.

Mycroft felt Greg lean forward a bit to readjust and turned over to pull him down into a lying position. They lay facing each other, closely snuggled together on the couch. Greg kissed Mycroft on the forehead and runs and hand behind the man's head, rubbing his neck. Mycroft tilted his head up and kissed Greg on the mouth, his breath tasting like milk and honey. Greg sighed and brought his hand up to caress Mycroft's rough cheek.

Mycroft fell asleep in Greg's arms, his headache fading. Greg smiled down at the snoozing man, happy that he was able to help.


	2. Morning Jog

Peering up at the lightening morning sky, Greg stretched on the stoop of Mycroft's house. In his jogging shorts, t-shirt and running shoes, he looked ready for his morning run. Jogging in place on his toes, Greg prepared himself to go. He checked his watch. 10 seconds until 5:30am. He tapped the play button on his iPod, which was strapped to his left bicep. Loud techno music blasted into his ears. He smiles and takes off, precisely at 5:30am.

Jogging at a brisk pace for the first ten minutes, Greg paced himself. He rounded the block once then went a street over and round the block there. After the warm up, Greg started to push himself, sprinting on straight streets, barely checking for cars, knowing that there would be very few, if any.

Greg veered into a small courtyard park area, easily jumping the fence. He sprung from the top and rolled once and kept running. He vaults over a bench, resting his hand on the back and pivoting around, landing with his feet lightly touching the ground before he lifted them again and sprinted towards the low wall on the opposite side of the park. Treating it as a hurdle, Greg stretched his left leg over as he jumped pulling his right along behind, quickly, barely clearing the wall.

He dashed into the road and was almost hit by a car. Its brakes screeched and a horn sounded but Greg just slid across the hood, waving at the driver. He laughed and kept running. He started to pound the pavement, his shoes only just touching the ground before being lifted again.

After a bit of hard running, Greg peeked at his watch and his eyes widened in surprise. It was nearly 7. He had meant to be back before then, showered and making breakfast by now. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath as he cut into an alley, a shortcut. He slowed to a jog once he was on Mycroft's street, walking once he got within two houses.

Opening the door, Greg was met with the smell of coffee. "Oh, bloody hell, he's up…" Tiptoeing to the stairs that led to the upper floor, his trainer-clad foot squeaked on the polished hardwood.

"Gregory?" Mycroft called from the kitchen.

Greg winced. "Yeh, Myc, it's me…"

He heard Mycroft's soft footsteps coming through the living room. He met the younger man half way. "Hi."

Mycroft gave him a once over, taking in his damp, clingy t-shirt and his short jogging shorts. Mycroft's eyebrow arched and the corner of his mouth tweaked up. "How was the run?"

Greg scratched the back of his sweaty head, embarrassed that Mycroft, a very proper man, had to see him like this, disheveled and all gross. "Good," Greg answered at last, avoiding looking at his partner. "Yeah, it was fine. Uh, can I go shower?"

Mycroft rocked back on his heels and cupped his chin with his hand, thinking. "Not quite yet…"

"What?"

Mycroft grinned, his bright blue eyes spelling mischief. "You, like this?" He stepped forward and gripped the front of Greg's shirt, jerking him forward. "It's incredibly arousing."

"Wh-what?" Greg stammered, caught off guard by Mycroft's confession.

Mycroft closed the distance between their mouths and greedily pawed at Greg's shirt, wanting it off. Greg didn't understand what was happening but he no longer cared. He let himself be pushed against the wall, Mycroft pinning him with his thin body. Greg helped Mycroft pull his still-sweaty cotton tee over his head, gasping when he felt Mycroft's tongue on his neck. He never knew Mycroft was like this, so easily turned on by his dishevelment. It was surprising and astoundingly hot.

Goosebumps ran the length of Greg's arms where Mycroft touched, causing chills to run down his spine. He arched away from the wall and spun them around, this time pinning Mycroft. Greg pushed his head against Mycroft's shoulder, his left ear tilted up. Mycroft breathed softly into Greg's ear, whispering sweet nothings that made Greg's heart race and his breath quicken as he ran his hands under Mycroft's pyjama shirt. He pulled them out and slid his hand along Mycroft's arm.

Greg threaded the fingers on his left hand through Mycroft's right and pressed his palm into it. Mycroft pressed back but with not as much urgency anymore. They stared into each other's eyes, sharing a tender moment, a loving pause. Greg then cupped the back of Mycroft's neck and kissed him, softly on the mouth. It was a slow and sensual kiss. Mycroft could feel all the love and passion that Greg felt towards him in that one moment. He felt all the tenderness and all the joy in that one kiss and it made him breathless. He kissed back, gently touching Greg's cheek, caressing it with the lightest touch of his fingertips.

They finally broke apart and Greg just wrapped his arms around Mycroft holding onto him. "I love you, Myc."

Mycroft smiled and kissed the top of Greg's head. "I love you too, my dear. Forever and always."


	3. Not an Idiot (teen AU)

"Ouch."

"Well, hold still, Gregory."

Mycroft was kneeling on the ground beside Greg, nursing a scrape on his boyfriend's cheek. The boys had been playing football in the car park after classes as a way to relax but, Greg, being the show-off that he is, started diving to the concrete after the ball. His bare arms are covered in scratches and bruises and his legs didn't fair too much better. There was a particularly nasty gash on his right cheek, the area around his eye turning slightly purple from the impact.

Greg crossed his arms and rested them on his scrapped knees, wincing at the pain a bit. The wet napkins Mycroft was using had alcohol in them, making the raw skin burn, but he obeyed and stayed still. "Sorry," he mumbled into the crook of his arm.

"What ever for?" Mycroft cocked his head slightly and stopped dabbing at Greg's face.

Greg looked away. "Bein' an idiot all the time."

"Gregory..."

"I mean it. I am an idiot. All the bloody time. Literally, bloody." Greg turned his head to stare at Mycroft, his eyes full of anger, but not for Mycroft, but for himself. "I don't understand what a top-marks kid like you sees in a moron like me. Really." He buried his face in his arms, seething at himself.

Suddenly, his head was being jerked up by his hair. "Augh! OW! Wha-" he yelled but was interrupted by Mycroft's mouth crushing into his. The younger boy's hand pressed into the back of Greg's head, fingers still gripping his hair. Greg's eyes wide, he struggled away from the surprisingly strong boy. "Oi, Myc, stop!"

They had never kissed before.

Mycroft backed up, a look of astonishment on his face. "I-eh- I..." his cheeks were bright red, masking the freckles that usually adorned them. "I-I'm sorry. I d-don't..."

Greg stared at the stammering kid, his own face on fire. Mycroft suddenly stood and mumbled another apology and went to walk away. Greg scrambled after him. "Myc, no, wait!"

The younger boy stopped, shoulders stiff. Greg stood behind him, scratching the back of his head.

"Gregory, I don't think you to be an idiot."

Greg looked up, confused. "What?"

Mycroft turned around to face his older boyfriend. "You are not an idiot."

"But, I-"

"No!" Mycroft yelled. "You stop it! You are not an idiot or stupid or a moron or whatever else you said. You are perfect, Gregory! You are! You are an excellent goalkeeper, brilliant in science, and so good with your drawings. You are amazing..." Mycroft was on the verge of tears, his blue eyes watering slightly. He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. "Now, stop it, insulting yourself. It's simply not true."

Greg blinked, holding back tears of his own. He had never seen Mycroft like this before and it had him emotional.

Mycroft was looking down at his feet, hands clasped behind his back, the smell of the alcohol still permeating the air. He opened his mouth to say something about getting Greg cleaned up, but he was stopped by Greg grabbing his face and kissing him passionately. Mycroft jumped, startled by the suddenness of the kiss but soon found himself leaning into Greg. He twined his hands through the hair at the back of Greg's neck again, this time without pulling. The kiss was slow and gentle, long awaited.

Mycroft pulled back, his breath coming in short puffs. "W-wow..."

Greg bit his lip and smiled, face warm. Mycroft was an amazing kisser. "Yeah..."

"I love you," they both said simultaneously. Greg grinned and burst into laughter while Mycroft blushed, a shy smile on his own face.

"Now, sit back down," Mycroft commanded, shoving Greg away from him playfully. "Your eye is becoming more blackened by the minute."

"Kinda what happens when you land on your face in a car park," Greg retorted good-naturedly.

Mycroft shook his head. "You should try _not_ doing that."

Greg nodded, tilting his head towards Mycroft so he could apply the antiseptic to the scratch on his cheek. "I'll keep that in mind." He started at the sudden chill and then burn of the alcohol. "Ouch!"

"I told you to stay still, Gregory."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it."


	4. Honey-Lemon Tea?

"Mycroft, stop," Greg struggled to get out of the taller man's grip. "I'm fine, let me go! I have work t-" he started to cough uncontrollably.

"Absolutely not," Mycroft rushed over to the kettle, poured the hot water over the tea leaves, waited a minute or two for them to steep, added one sugar cube, honey, and a small amount of lemon juice, and then stirred. Greg's coughing fit had quieted and he now lay, defeated, on the couch. Mycroft handed the tea to Greg, who sniffed it.

"Lemon?" Greg made a face and tried handing it back but Mycroft just gently pushed it back towards the sick man's face.

"Drink it, Gregory," Mycroft commanded simply. He was not going to put up with 'no' for an answer. He sat down in the armchair facing the couch and stared at the defiant grey-haired man.

Greg just glared at the cup in his hand. He sniffed it again and cringed. He was more a coffee person, favouring the bitter brew to the lighter alternative. Glancing up, he noticed Mycroft's staring and sighed, a small cough accompanying it. He raised the small cup to his mouth and gingerly took a sip. The sweetness of the honey and bit of sugar hit is tongue first, coating it in sweetness before the tartness of the lemon mixed in, making it taste like warm lemonade. Greg's eyes widened in pleasant surprise and he took another sip.

"I hate to say I tol-" Mycroft started.

"Oh, shut it," Greg interrupted, taking another long sip from his cup. The hot tea steamed in his face, clearing a bit of the congestion in his sinuses. The honey soothed his sore throat, making the urge to cough disappear.

"Don't drink it too fast, Gregory. Savour it," Mycroft shook his head and smiled at Greg.

Greg put the cup down, wanting to save a bit of it for later. He turned his attention the Mycroft who was sitting a few feet away in the armchair, legs crossed and his hands cupping his knee. "Myc…"

Mycroft cocked his head to the side and stared at Greg, waiting for him to go on. "Yes?"

Greg scratched at the stubble on his chin, glancing around Mycroft's living room. He wiggled his right foot nervously. "Myc, I just…" He stopped and took a deep breath, not sure how to put what he wanted to say to words. He coughed a little and took another sip of the tea. Setting the cup back down, he noticed his hands shaking slightly. Taking a deep breath he looked back at Mycroft. "Mycroft, I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you and the fact that you are doing this for me." His face grew hot and he turned away.

Mycroft kept smiling but blinked, confused. He appreciated him? Mycroft was having trouble with the concept of someone caring or having any emotion other than distaste towards him.

"In other words, thanks," Greg suddenly blurted, breaking the awkward silence.

Mycroft blinked again and regained his senses. "Of course, Gregory."

Mycroft got up and refreshed his own drink, whiskey. He took a long sip, still trying to process his new emotion. He was appreciated. He smiled to himself.

Greg had turned over and was facing away from the armchair now. Mycroft stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, leaning down. Greg turned his head and he was met by Mycroft's soft lips pressing into his. His eyes fluttered closed and his head stopped aching. Then he remembered; he was sick. He pulled away quickly, turning his head and coughing into his elbow.

"Myc, I'm sick!" Greg exclaimed. "If I get _you_ sick…"

"Do not fret, my dear. It would be my own fault if I were to fall ill." Mycroft kissed Greg again. Greg sat up and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck, pulling Mycroft down onto the couch to sit. They broke apart and Greg put his head on Mycroft's shoulder, pulling his legs around to make more room for Mycroft.

Mycroft and Greg sat there, cuddling and talking for the rest of the day, sharing tea and kisses.


	5. The Hound (were John and were Greg AU)

"It's nice to get London out of your lungs!" Lestrade said with a smile, beer in hand as he walked backwards away from his charges, Sherlock and John. Mycroft had sent him here to make sure they didn't get into too much trouble with this convoluted 'mutant dog' case they had accepted.

Lestrade had already been on holiday when Mycroft called him. He had just found out that his wife had cheated on him again with the P.E. teacher and they had separated. Lestrade had kicked her out and decided to take some time for himself and went on a holiday to the Caribbean. The sun had relaxed him and, when Mycroft's call came, he was happy to oblige.

When he arrived in Grimpen, Dartmoor, he couldn't find the boys anywhere. He called Mycroft and was told to just wait at the Cross Keys Inn and that they would be there shortly. He wasn't wrong. They walked into the inn's pub in a huff, Sherlock spotting him instantly. Lestrade told them that he was just there on holiday, to which Sherlock promptly shot him down, seeing his tan from the Caribbean sun. There was even more of a problem with Sherlock not even knowing Lestrade's first name was Greg, thinking it was an attempt at fooling him. Lestrade just walked out and told them he was on holiday.

Lestrade leisurely strolled through the pleasant small town, enjoying the fresh air and the green of the hills around it. He decided to explore a bit more, looking in the shop windows and sightseeing.

After a while, he forgot where the inn was and it was getting dark. He peeked down an alleyway and saw a familiar building. As he walked through the narrow walkway, he heard a scuffle behind him. He turned his head slightly to look behind him but, suddenly, his head was bludgeoned with a hard, metal object, making a loud _PANG _sound. Collapsing to the ground, his vision receded to a small point. He was able to make out a vaguely Irish accent commanding that he be thrown into the back of a truck. And that's all he knew for hours.

Sherlock and John had met with their client, Henry Knight, in his house earlier that day. Now, they were out in the moor, at night, armed with Sherlock's sidearm (given to him by John, who wouldn't need it with having claws and teeth and such) and a couple dim torches.

Henry led the way back to Dewer's Hollow, where he had witnessed his father's brutal murder 20 years prior. They had been here the night before and had seen a large, wolf-like creature but John said that he hadn't smelt or even heard anything at all, but he had been left behind when he had stopped to investigate some strange lights in the distance. Sherlock had come away from it visibly shaken, very unlike the usually composed man. John had tried his best to console him but he was beyond frightened.

Now, they were back out here. Sherlock shivered against the stiff breeze that whispered through the trees. "John, I don't like this," he said, holding his gun defensively out in front of him.

John hadn't changed into his wolf form yet but his senses were trained on their surroundings. "I don't smell or hear anything yet, Sherlock. Take it easy." John grunted as the sound of a tree branch cracking startled Sherlock and the man waved the gun wildly in the direction of the noise. "And will you stop slinging that around? You're going to shoot one of us!"

Sherlock's pulse hammered in his throat. "But what if-" The mania was setting in, causing him to go senseless.

John stopped in front of Sherlock and gripped the trembling shoulders of the consulting detective. He hummed deep in his chest, a sound Sherlock always found comfort in. "I got you, Sherlock. I'm here. _I'm_ the only big bad wolf around, okay? All the others aren't a match for me."

Sherlock's frightened mint-coloured eyes calmed and he smiled at his wolf. "Of course."

"We're here," Henry muttered, dread in his tone. The mist had settled again in the hollow, limiting visibility and creating an atmosphere akin to a horror film. The trees swayed in the wind, groaning and creaking. "Here," Henry pointed at the ground near where he stood at a dark corner of the hollow.

John stooped and shone his torchlight on the spot. There, in the mud, was a gigantic footprint. No. _Paw_print.

Sherlock started to shake again but remained composed. "That looks like a-"

"Yeah," John confirmed. A werewolf's print. John feared that there was a feral wolf around here. He sniffed the area around the print but it seemed to be old, the smell of the creature that created it barely able to be scented. "Whatever it was, it's been gone for days."

"Then what did we see last night?" Sherlock asked with an incredulous tone.

"No idea," John replied, shaking his head.

Suddenly, a loud crunch sounded to the east. John's ears perked at the noise.

"What was that?!" Henry squeaked, holding his torch like a baton. He backed towards the hollow's entrance, tripping over his own feet and falling on his backside. "Wh-what was that?!"

"Be quiet!" John growled, his ears becoming elongated and furry. He could hear well enough with human ears but sounds were easier to catch with his wolf ones. He knew his eyes' irises were reddening, probably a bloody-violet right now, due to the blue of his human eye colour. His vision was sharpening and he was able to see through the fog easily now. He spotted Sherlock, gun in hand again. "See anything, Sherlock?" John shouted.

"N-no. Nothing yet," the curly-headed man yelled back, voice shaking. He struggled to keep his hands steady.

Unexpectedly, a thunderous roar echoed around them. John tried to pinpoint the origin but the sound just bounced around the hollow. Henry screamed and sprinted out of the hollow, back towards Grimpen. John yelled for him but he was cut off by another monstrous howl.

"Sherlock, behind you!" John exclaimed, pointing above Sherlock's head to the lip of the hollow. A huge, silvery werewolf stood there, eyes blazing red-orange. John let out a fierce growl and ripped into his wolf form, teeth becoming daggers and fingers becoming claws. The giant beast on the ridge screamed a piercing, wild screech and then lunged, claws and teeth bared.

Bright lights cut through the darkness clouding Lestrade's mind. "Nnngghhph," he moaned, his voice echoing slightly. Opening his eyes, he found that he was staring up into surgical lab lights. Lestrade turned his head to the side and saw that his left wrist was strapped to the slab he lay on. Panic starting to cloud his thoughts, he started to thrash but found that his chest, legs and feet were also bound. "H-hey! What's going on?!" he demanded, his voice only wavering slightly. A soft chuckle cut through the silence.

"Oh, hullo, Detective Inspector," a slightly familiar Irish voice spoke behind him. Lestrade struggled to see who it was but he couldn't move.

"Who in the bloody hell are you?" Lestrade spat angrily. "Show yourself!"

Footsteps neared him and a pale, brown-eyed man came into view. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and a crooked smile. His hair was slicked back stylishly and he had an air of cockiness about him. Lestrade swore. "Fuckin' Moriarty?" he laughed. "I thought you were in the loony bin."

"Released on good behavior, detective," Moriarty cooed, the snakelike grin never leaving his face.

"Why am I here?" Lestrade glanced around again. "And where is 'here'?"

Lestrade heard some doors open and more footsteps converge on his table. People in medical scrubs and surgeons' masks surrounded him, hooking him up to multiple machines. "Hey! What are you d- stop it!" He resisted all he could but it wasn't enough. The scientists moved away after setting an IV drip in his left arm, wires attached to electrodes on his right arm and to his head. They had ripped open his shirt and attached even more electrodes and wires to his chest, a light _blip_ signaling his erratic heartbeat.

Moriarty paced slowly, observing while they hooked him up to all the machines. Finally, after the last scientist stepped away, the doors were heard opening again and a cart was rolled beside Moriarty at the foot of Lestrade's table, on it a black breifcase.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade demanded again, this time the fear nearly choking him. Moriarty opened the black case and pulled out a vial of reddish-white liquid. It glowed slightly under the fluorescent lighting, giving off a radioactive aura. Lestrade struggled hard against the binds.

"Now, now…" Moriarty tutted. "Don't be afraid, my dear. This is just a test… for science…" He filled a large syringe with the viscous fluid, squirting the air and some of it out of the tip.

Lestrade's eyes widened when he realised that the glowing liquid was going into him. Moriarty stabbed the needle into Lestrade's neck, depressing the plunger and forcing the strange fluid into his bloodstream ."No!" Lestrade yelled. "Noo… you're completely mad…"

Blazing agony ripped through Lestrade's body. He screamed and writhed agains the restraints. The beeping of his heart rate quickened, becoming a nearly-constant tone. "NAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Lestrade shrieked, his chest gleaming with sweat. The pain spread all the way through his body, burning him from the inside out.

Suddenly, a tearing sound echoed through the lab. Lestrade had torn through the bonds that held his right arm and his chest to the slab. His arm had doubled in size and has sprouted silver hair. _No, not hair_, he thought through the torturous misery. _Fur._

"WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?!" he cried out, his voice a deep bellow. Fury and confusion clouded his thoughts. All he knew was trapped and he wanted out. He strained against the rest of his bonds ripping through them and freeing himself.

Moriarty backed away, fear in his darkened eyes. He barked orders at the scientists but they were all fleeing the room. "Jesus Christ…" he muttered, eyes still focused on the changing man.

Lestrade dropped to the floor, tearing the IV out of his arm. He gripped his head and his hands found that his hair had grown shaggier and his ears were lengthening. A wave of tormenting fire coursed through his body. He heard a loud cracking noise as his ribcage reformed itself and his spine grew an extension. His legs bowed backwards and his nose forced itself forward into a blunt snout. A howl of agony escaped his stretching face as sharp teeth replaced his own dull, human ones.

With the final course of inferno-like suffering, Lestrade lost all thought other than _KILL_ and _GET OUT_. His blazing red eyes spotted a small figure huddled in a corner. Lestrade's chest rumbled with a deep, feral growl, it's low bass resonating through the nearly-empty lab.

The man in the corner, dressed in a black suit and fear in his brown eyes, held a metal rod with a sharp edge at the end. "G-get away!" he shouted at the beast advancing on him. He bumped back into the wall, urging his knees to stop knocking together.

Garble speech ripped out of the silver wolf's throat. "KKIIILLLLL!" he snarled, bearing his dripping, white fangs.

Moriarty's eyes shut as the monster lunged. He waved the weapon through the air and heard a yelp as it made contact with something solid. He slumped to the ground, eyes still screwed shut.

Silence.

Then, an earsplitting wail shatters the calm. He heard the doors crash open and a window shatter in the hallway.

The beast had escaped.

The silver wolf whimpered, glass in his paws. He hurried into the forest around the Baskerville facility, where he had just escaped from. He saw lights flashing in the distance and he snarled. _KILL _screamed over and over in his thoughts like a siren.

Abruptly, the smell of another wolf hit his nostrils, turning his vision red. He recognised a few other scents but the smell of wolf fogged his mind, befuddled and angered him. The silver wolf heaved his chest and roared vociferously, his voice reverberating off of the trees.

He heard a nearby scream and yelling. He crested a low lip of a hollow. Two things stood in it, one small thing and then a growing thing. The silver wolf snarled down at the small one as the big one yelled, "Sherlock, behind you!"

_Sherlock. _The name bounced around painfully in the silvery grey wolf's head. He screamed. He was able to recognise the big one as another wolf now, ashy blond. It spoke with a man voice.

"He is one! I can smell it!"

_KILL!_

The grey wolf sprung in attack.

John leapt in front of Sherlock blocking the snarling wolf's assault. "Move back, Sherlock!"

The other wolf cried out, half growling half whimpering. He had a long gash across his forehead and his front paws were all sliced up. John shoved him back and snarled, the sound ripping out of his throat in warning to the other wolf. He seemed to be new, driven mad by the Change. He wasn't able to speak. The silver wolf uttered a low, garbled whine, panic set in his red-brown eyes. John barked an order at him but he didn't seem to understand.

_What happened to you…?_ he questioned. The other wolf's face changed from a sad, hurt look to a slobbering, sneering bunch of fangs and sharp teeth. He howled in pain, piercingly loudly. John winced in sympathy. Whatever happened to this wolf was forced upon him, and rather quickly. He glimpsed the lights of Baskerville in the distance. _Oh course._ They _WERE_ doing experiments but on people, not animals.

The grey wolf lunged again for Sherlock but John bounded into the path of the raging beast, bearing his teeth and snapping at the deranged silver wolf.

Sherlock pointed his gun at the huge animal, aim shaking and sheer terror making his heart thud painfully against his ribs. John could hear it. He could smell the sweat sliding down his back too.

John also scented something else too. Something familiar that wasn't Sherlock or even Henry, who was long gone. He fixed eyes on the raging wolf's own darkened red orbs, staring intently. Fear, desperation, and madness swirled all together but there was something else, and John could barely see it. _Oh… my GOD!_

"Sherlock!" John screamed as he heard a bullet slide into the chamber of the sidearm Sherlock held in his quivering hands. "Don't shoot!"

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John and back to the rampaging monster. "B-"

"Don't!" John snarled. "This is Lestrade!"

Sherlock's eyes opened wide. It all clicked into place. They hadn't been able to find him at all today. The silver fur. The slight facial resemblance. It really was the DI. He lowered his gun and stared, open-mouthed at John.

_Lestrade!_

The word- no… name repeated over and over in the grey wolf's mind.

_This is—_

_He is—_

_I—_

Pain ripped through his chest. A long whimper tore itself from his throat as his bones reformed and snapped throughout his entire body. He fell to his newly reformed knees and clutched at his restructuring head. The silver fur receded to just his head. Blood poured anew from the wound on his head but the glass had been pushed out of his hands, saving him from major damage. As the last shudders of the Change ran through his body, Lestrade cried. Tears of anguish trickled down his face.

John shifted back and ran to the man on the ground. He didn't touch him. He knew what it felt like to be anatomically ripped apart and reassembled like that and being touched right after was painful. The first few times are always this raw and agonizing. He knelt next to Lestrade, not saying anything.

Sherlock looked to John, unsure of what he should do. He stood with the gun dangling from his hand.

"Sh-lock…"

Lestrade's rasp snapped Sherlock out of his stupor. "Lestrade."

Lestrade peeked at Sherlock from between his fingers, eye still blazing red fro recent change. "Call… Mycroft…" he gasped and collapsed into John.

John put his arms around the unconscious man, supporting his weight but still falling back and sitting on the ground. Lestrade just slept right there, the tremours of the Change still coursing through his body.

Mycroft met the men at the train station near Grimpen the next morning. Sherlock went ahead of John and Lestrade when they got there, wanting to talk to Mycroft privately first. He hadn't said anything about Lestrade's condition, but they had mentioned that they had caught the 'hound'. Mycroft wanted to make sure it got back safely, knowing full well about its lycanthrope-ish nature.

Lestrade was still struggling to stay conscious, his head nodding to his chest every 5 minutes. The bandages around his head and on the cuts on his face were irritating but he knew they were helping. John urged him not to open his eyes much in this public place. They were still abnormally red (for a human) and might alarm the general public.

"Just, try to walk?" John insisted. "You'll feel better once you get moving, trust me."

Lestrade grunted a short laugh. "M'kay. T'ever yeh say…" He stumbled a few steps, doing pretty well, then his knees wobbled and he started to fall.

John rushed to him and supported him, lifting the other man's arm over his head. John put his left arm around Lestrade's back and held him up. "We'll do it this way."

Together, John and Lestrade slowly made their way to the correct platform. John caught the tail end of Sherlock and Mycroft's conversation.

"…we don't know how but we will investigate," Sherlock had been saying. "He's a werewolf of his own kind. Not bitten but created. Injected, it seemed." He glanced over Mycroft's shoulder and spotted John and Lestrade. They were close. "We know you help us with John's secret-"

"-and… humbly ask you to help us… one more time…" John puffed, out of breath.

Mycroft turned as the two men mount the last step and stand there. He at first didn't identify who the grey-haired man John is helping stand was but he slowly put it together.

John took a deep breath, settling his heart. "… by watching over this dude."

Lestrade mumbles something unintelligible and Mycroft finally recognises him.

"Greg, say hi," John prompted the shaky DI.

Lestrade just murmured again, his hand flopping into the air and falling limply to his side again.

-End?-


	6. Why Study When We Can Snog? (teen AU)

"I'm –ah- sorry 'bout calling you a p-prick," Greg said around his boyfriend's needy lips. They had just had a row, name calling and flinging insults at each other. It was over something so trivial; which biscuits to have with their tea. Both boys have been under a ton of stress due to final exams and all the essays they each had to write. It made them snappish, and also prevented any together time. So after glowering at each other and breathing heavily after their screaming match, Greg nearly tackled Mycroft, crushing his mouth into the younger teen's own lips. The tension they had both been feeling over the past few weeks melted away with every touch of the other's fingers on their skin.

Mycroft shoved at Greg's chest, pushing the older boy against the wall roughly, breaking contact. Greg thudded against the wall, a mischievous grin on his face. Mycroft put his hands on either side of Greg's head, cocking his own to the side. "And you are not an imbecile," he stated, returning the impish smile. He pressed himself into Greg, his tall and thin form trapping the other boy. Greg growled deep in his throat and pulled Mycroft's head down to his again. Their lips parted and Greg tasted the tea on Mycroft's tongue as it traced Greg's bottom lip.

Greg fumbled with the buttons on Mycroft's waistcoat and dress shirt, wanting to touch the skin hidden beneath. Reaching down while keeping their mouths in constant contact, Mycroft leaned away and finished unbuttoning his shirt. Greg's hands instantly ran behind Mycroft's back and gripped the teen tightly, their mouths still connected.

Mycroft broke the kiss and dove into Greg's neck softly biting the skin below his jawline. Greg flexed his arms, squeezing Mycroft even closer, his fingers digging into his shoulder blades with urgency.

Shoving off the wall and detaching from Mycroft, Greg pulled his own t-shirt over his head, gripping the neck of it and tugging. His head popped back up, black-brown hair sticking up wildly, shadowing his forehead. His own brown eyes found Mycroft's frigid-blue ones, arousal spelled out in the glare. Mycroft shoved against Greg again, the bare skin of their chests hot. It was Greg's turn to nuzzle into Mycroft's throat, teeth nipping at his neck.

"God, we needed this," Mycroft breathed, shivers running wherever Greg touched. He felt Greg's agreement buzz against his throat, sending more tremours through his body. "I love you, Gr-Gregory," he said for the first time.

Greg froze, his lips poised over Mycroft's shoulder. Greg lifted his head to stare at Mycroft. "You… do?" he asked.

Mycroft blinked. "O-of course I do."

"Well, ehm…" Greg started his eyes down. A smile crept onto his face. "I love you too, Myc."

Mycroft stomach fluttered. He leaned down slowly and pressed his lips to Greg's, hands on his boyfriend's waist. Greg lifted his arms to rest them around Mycroft's neck, hugging him close. They both felt the other's love and compassion in that slow kiss.

Finally, Mycroft broke it off. "We need to study."

Greg groaned. "I knoooow… but I don't wannaaaa…"

Mycroft just laughed and sat down at his desk, his shirt still unbuttoned. Greg pulled the other desk's chair over and sat on it backwards.

"I love ya," Greg stated randomly. Now that he's said it once, he isn't going to stop.

Mycroft turned and smiled. "I love you too, Gregory." He then said, "Name the first 30 elements and their atomic masses, in order," eyes flicking to the book in front of them.

Greg groaned.


	7. Too Old for This

Mycroft's ears perked at the sound of the front door shutting, not expecting anyone home for a few hours. From his soft chair in the sitting room of the home he shared with the Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard, Greg Lestrade, he heard soft footsteps coming down the hallway, slightly off step, like they were limping.

Greg walked in normally, immediately hiding his limp when he saw Mycroft lounging in his armchair, reading. "Hey, Myc."

"You're home early," Mycroft stated, looking up from his paper. Greg plopped onto the sofa, adjusting himself and sighing. He winced slightly when he unbent his left knee. Mycroft didn't say anything about it.

"Yea, we finished up the case quickly after your brother had his input." He rubbed his knee absentmindedly.

Mycroft noticed the swelling in Greg's knee and a small spot of blood.

Suddenly, Greg glanced towards the kitchen and went to get up, easily enough. "I'm hungry. Want anything?"

Mycroft jumped up and held his hands out. "I was about to have tea. I'll get you something," he said hurriedly and walked swiftly into the kitchen.

"O-kay then," Greg said, sitting back down. He was actually going to get ice for his injured knee but didn't want Mycroft to worry. They hadn't actually solved the case yet, the perpetrator getting away because Greg, in his idiocy, thought climbing a fence and jumping from the top of it was a good idea. He isn't as young as he used to be and today made it evident.

Meanwhile, Mycroft heated the water for tea and clicked the coffee maker on for Greg's after-work caffeine boost. He laid out some biscuits on a little plate and set a couple small cakes in the middle. _I suppose he wanted ice…_ he thought to himself. Mycroft didn't want Greg making a fuss over being taken care of like he usually did, so the ice would have to wait. The coffee finished brewing just as Mycroft's tea was done steeping. He put the strainer over his cup and poured his tea, milk and sugar added after. He then poured Greg's coffee in a mug, only sugar added. Setting it all on a tray he carried it all into the sitting room and set it on the short table in front of the sofa.

"Thanks, Myc," Greg smiled over his mug, blowing on it to cool it off. Mycroft just nodded and sat down next to him, taking a biscuit and dipping it in his tea absentmindedly. Greg shifted over slightly and a shot of pain shot from his knee, causing him to gasp, but he covered it with a cough.

Mycroft glanced at his partner, eyebrows raised. "Is everything alright, Gregory?" He set his cup back in its saucer, the china clinking lightly. Greg just stared into his own mug, not speaking. Mycroft sighed and got up, going back into the kitchen.

Greg silently cursed himself for not going to the hospital to get it checked out. He knew Mycroft would notice and mentally kicked himself for trying in the first place for even attempting to hide it. _Bloody idiot, you are. Moron._

Mycroft walked back in, a blue baggie in hand. He sat back down next to Greg and pressed it to Greg's injured knee. Greg jumped but the pain started to fade instantly. He sighed and stole a glance at Mycroft, who was focused on Greg's leg. Greg smiled and leaned towards Mycroft. The younger man turned his head just as Greg put his hand under his chin and pressed his lips to his. Mycroft blinked, his eyes fluttering closed. He kissed Greg back, gently, his hand still resting with the ice on Greg's knee.

Greg pulled back and rested his forehead against Mycroft's staring into the other man's ice-blue eyes. "Thank you, Mycroft," he said softly. "Really, thank you."

Mycroft grinned at Greg, his smile lighting up his face.. "I love helping you, Gregory. You never have to be afraid to tell me anything."

"I know, Myc, it's just…" Greg sat back slightly, looking away as his face heated. "I don't want you to worry about me…"

"Too late for that, I'm afraid."

Greg cocked his head, confused. "Huh?"

"Every day you leave for work, I worry. It's my nature." Mycroft's cheeks reddened slightly. "I just think about you going and not… not returning."

Greg gaped at his loving partner, this side of the younger man barely ever shown. "Myc…" he leaned in and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, pulling him close. "I know there's the chance I'll get hurt, but I'm rarely in the field anymore." Greg held Mycroft out at arm's length, hand clasping Mycroft's shoulders. "I'm getting too bloody old for the running and chasing anymore. Today was just because we found his hideout and he ran. Nothing more."

Mycroft smiled softly, staring into Greg's large, brown eyes. "You're right. I know I shouldn't fret, but I cannot help it."

"I know, Myc."

"I love you."

Greg beamed. "And I love you, Mycroft. Forever."

Mycroft pulled the older man in for a kiss, resting a hand on his face. "And always," he whispered against Greg's lips.


	8. Head Colds Suck

_THUD!_

Greg let his head fall against his desk, moaning. "I blody hate bein' sick," he rasps, his throat scratchy and raw from his coughing. He tried to sniff again but no air could pass through his swollen sinuses. "AUGH!" he yelled, slamming his fist into his desktop, causing his pencil holder to clatter.

"Boss?" Donovan's voice inquired from the doorway to Greg's office.

"WOT?" Greg snapped, lifting his head to glare.

Donovan shook her head. "Just go home, Greg. You are gonna get the rest of us sick." She shrugged. "Plus, we can handle anything else."

Greg sat back and took a tissue to his nose and tried to blow. Again, no air passed so he just ended up popping his ears, grimacing. He looked up to Donovan, sheepishly. "Are ya sure?"

She nodded and walked away, closing the door. Greg sighed a gurgly sigh and pulled out his mobile.

"Mych," Greg tried when Mycroft answered. "Can you combe pich me up fromb work?

"Are you alright, Gregory? You sound congested."

"Yeh, no, I'mb berfectly okay."

Mycroft sighed. "There's no need to be sarcastic. It was a simple inquiry."

Greg ran his free hand through his hair. "Yeh, I know, I'mb sorry. I'mb just sorely congested..."

There was an audible sigh and a light chuckle from the other line. "Would you like me to pick you up for work?"

Greg tried to laugh but it almost immediately turned into a coughing fit. That was answer enough for Mycroft. "I will be there shortly," and he hung up.

Greg locked his phone and put his head back down. His temples had started to throb after that hacking episode and now he just had one more thing to endure.

The sleek black Jag pulls up to the curb in front of the Yard and Mycroft steps out into the rain, his umbrella immediately going up to shield the gentleman from the downpour. He instructed the driver to park close by and wait for his call.

Walking into the building, he made a beeline to the lift and stabbed the button with the tip of his umbrella. Mycroft strode into the office space with his head up and shoulders back, his trust umbrella unfurled but unopened in his hand. The space went completely silent and a few of the younger members compulsively stood up straighter, at attention. Former soldiers, from the way they held themselves and their cropped haircuts. He could see their right hands itching to salute. He loved it when they saluted him. It was not necessarily warranted but his air of command was quite powerful, so the urge was quite natural.

Standing outside Greg's office was Donovan, arms crossed over her chest. "Here to take him home?"

"Naturally," Mycroft smiled somewhat genuinely. "He is terribly ill and has requested my attention."

Stepping aside, Donovan cracked open the door for Mycroft, who dismissed her with a nod.

Greg was nowhere to be seen. "Gregory, dear?"

"On the floor," came the reply form behind the desk. Mycroft peeked around and found his partner lying face up on the carpet, suit jacket bundled under his head and a box of tissues just in reach of his left hand. Greg cracked his eye open and grinned blearily at the Holmes in front of him. "Hullo, love."

Mycroft laughed. "For what reason are you on the floor?" He offered his hand and knelt to help Greg to sitting.

Stretching his arms over his head, Greg groaned loudly, the fluid in his throat crackling with the effort. "Stretches out by back. I can breive betta."

"You look dreadful," Mycroft needlessly observed. Greg's eyes shifted to glare.

"Thank yaAACCHHEHH!" Greg sneezed into the crook of his elbow. His face felt as if it had been pushed outwards. "Aauuhhh dammit!" He hated sneezing when he already had so much pressure in his face because it just added to it. He glowered sadly at Mycroft. "Please. Take mbe hombe."

Mycroft sympathetically smiled and helped Greg to his feet, the older man swaying slightly. Greg slipped on his coat, leaving his jacket crumpled on the floor. It would stay there for a few days but he didn't care. He had a cold to recover from.

"Lemon?" Greg made a face and tried handing the steaming teacup Mycroft had handed him back but Mycroft just gently pushed it back towards the sick man's face.

"Drink it, Gregory," Mycroft commanded simply. He was not going to put up with 'no' for an answer. He sat down in the armchair facing the couch and stared at the defiant grey-haired man.

Greg just glared at the cup in his hand, cringing. He was more a coffee person, favouring the bitter brew to the lighter alternative. Glancing up, he noticed Mycroft's insistent staring and sighed, a small round of coughing accompanying it. He raised the small cup to his mouth and gingerly took a sip. The sweetness of the honey and bit of sugar hit his tongue first, coating it in sweetness before the tartness of the lemon mixed in, making it taste like warm lemonade. Greg's eyes widened in pleasant surprise and he took another sip.

"I hate to say I tol-" Mycroft started.

"Oiii, shut it," Greg interrupted, taking another long sip from his cup. The hot tea steamed in his face, clearing a bit of the congestion in his sinuses. The honey soothed his sore throat, making the urge to cough disappear.

"Don't drink it too fast, dear. Savour it," Mycroft shook his head and smiled at Greg. The man had coughed the entire ride home. Mycroft did his best to calm him but there wasn't much he could do aside from holding him. "Any better?"

Greg nodded, his eyelids getting heavy. He was exhausted, from the constant coughing and just being sick. It drained him. His head drooped a bit but shot back up when he noticed. Mycroft was smirking at him the second time it happened. "Wot?" Greg sniffled.

"Shall we go to bed, then?" Mycroft asked, getting up and offering Greg his hand. Greg just nodded and took it, letting the taller man help him stand. They made their way to the bedroom. Greg just flopped face down on top of the duvet, not caring about getting underneath at the moment. The smell of the fabric softener was barely scented but it was a good sign, him being able to smell it at all. Greg felt Mycroft trying to roll him over but he was just so tired.

"I need to get you in your pyjamas, Gregory."

Greg groaned and swung his feet back off of the bed and lifted his arms over his head. Mycroft unbuttoned the first three buttons at the top, untucked it from Greg's trousers and pulled it over the sick man's head. Greg's arms flopped to his sides as Mycroft unbuckled his belt and unfastened the button on Greg's trousers. He eased Greg to stand and let he trousers fall, leaving Greg standing there in just his pants. Mycroft gently pushed Greg back down after moving the duvet and sheets to the side. He covered Greg up, who'd instantly fallen asleep. "I love you, my dear," Mycroft murmured into Greg's ear before kissing the slumbering man's forehead. Greg just smiled a bit and turned over.


End file.
